


it's not so bad to be the only one left here, though the science may seem queer, it's all that I've got now

by ASOCIAL CLIMBER (maxxxined)



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Violent Things - The Brobecks (Album)
Genre: A little comfort but a whole lotta darkness, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Tragedy, Anxiety Attacks, Based off of I Will Tonight by The Brobecks, Bunkers, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Eating Disorders, End of the World, Ghost Ryan Seaman, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nuclear Holocaust, Nuclear Winter, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Nuclear War, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Unhappy Ending, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25093693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxxxined/pseuds/ASOCIAL%20CLIMBER
Summary: Nobody anticipated a nuclear holocaust.Nobody could've known the end of the world was coming. Nobody except for Dallon, holed away in his bunker, grappling with his past trauma and the fact that he's the last person on Earth.Well, him, and the annoying ghost that's taken residence alongside him in his bunker.
Relationships: Breezy Weekes/Dallon Weekes, Ryan Seaman & Dallon Weekes, Ryan Seaman/Dallon Weekes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	1. TAPE ONE: A STUDY ON THE MENTAL EFFECTS OF RADIATION

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to put trigger warnings for the entire fic here, so please read carefully:
> 
> !!TW!!: This fic has references and descriptions of child abuse, alcoholism, homophobic language, suicide, and death.
> 
> Listen up folks- this isn't a light fic.
> 
> If you're looking for hurt/angst with a happy ending, you best be on your way. This fic is nothing but soul-crushing dread.
> 
> I personally do not have OCD, but my sister does, and I've seen what it does to her. I don't know what it's like and I never will, but I can try my hardest to put it into words for her sake. If I make any mistakes in this sense, please do not hesitate to point them out.
> 
> Another disclaimer- this past summer, I visited the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, and then went back to the hotel and cried for three hours. The things I saw were beyond disturbing, and a smidgen of them will be described in this fic. if that's going to disturb you, pleasepleaseplease do not read.
> 
> With all this said, if you're still here, please read safely. Don't read anything that will resurface things / hurt you, and if this fic is going to do that, please click away. I promise I won't be mad if you don't read it <3

**TAPE ONE: A STUDY ON THE MENTAL EFFECTS OF RADIATION, CIRCA YEAR 2020 / YEAR 0 ANH (AFTER NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST)**

_ Tape was found in an abandoned bunker in the year 826 (ANH) _

_WARNING: Some footage may be distressing to viewers. Viewer discretion is advised._

↯

Nobody anticipated a nuclear holocaust.

Nobody could've known the end of the world was coming.

That's why nobody was alive, a barren wasteland of a world where radiation turned any of the last living things into human ice-cream cones.

Nobody except Dallon.

Hundreds of feet underground, he always knew this day would come. Others called him insane, paranoid, psychotic. But today, those others were nothing but dust being pushed around by the winds, fires that were once ignited dying out, a thick haze of soot covering all sunlight.

And Dallon was sitting in his bunker, eating spoonfuls of beans and staring at the wall.

Nobody thought to listen to his letters. Nobody ever considered that he might still be the childhood genius he once was, that he hadn't become a recluse and gone mad. So when Dallon tried to warn world leaders of the consequences of a nuclear war, nobody paid any attention and his carefully crafted letters were thrown in the wastebasket.

It was okay. Dallon never really saw a need for people anyways. People mocked him, called him names and shoved him away when he tried to get close. People drank themselves to death just so Dallon could be an orphan, not that it made much difference from his normal family life. A normal child would've gone to the orphanage, but Dallon wasn't a normal child. He wasn't normal at all.

Some sick and twisted part of Dallon actually appreciated the Nuclear Winter. A full wipeout of everything horrible in the world, so that in many years to come, they could start over with a clean slate, and Dallon would be crowned a hero. It was all he had ever wanted- the recognition of his genius, the millions of hours of research and work put into his calculations, all those nights he spent alone at his mother's old desk.

He wanted them to be worth something to someone other than himself.

But Dallon knew he could never show anyone else that side of him. When the time came when the sun would shine once more, he'd leave his bunker and find the healthiest patch of soil, and he'd plant the next tree. For centuries to come people would hail him for his bravery, and he'd remain humble and good, for image's sake.

Dallon grabbed his drafting pencil from his desk and etched a line into the wall, charcoal rubbing off onto his fingers.

Day one.

He stood back and appreciated his bunker, eyes examining his carefully stocked shelves, cans and boxes of dry foods stacked perfectly.

Everything had to be perfect.

In one corner of the room was his bed, pushed up against the stone wall, and oil lamp, unlit to save oil for a more dire time. His army blanket was folded over neatly, his singular pillow cold and ruffled to perfection- it took him six tries before he got it perfect, or at least perfect enough for his mind to excuse.

On the other side was his desk, a long candle burned out, placed directly in the middle of the oak table. It was the only place where his mind let him put it today, so any work he did would have to respect its placement and move to the side of the desk, papers hanging off the edge. It's flame flickered in an invisible wind, almost going completely out before springing back up, a tiny circle of blue in the middle of the fiery orange.

His bookshelves were lined with ever textbook needed- human anatomy, the effects of radiation, nuclear science, and for fun, some quantum mechanics in case he got bored.

The bookshelves also sat home to his radio, which played nothing but static, odd whirling sounds pieced together from the radiation above. Dallon had already recorded their decibels, hertz and overall structure before shutting off the radio quickly when it started to form a rhythm.

Music wasn't allowed.

His gas mask also hung off the side of the shelf, hollow eyes staring back at him, a dim reflection of himself in their gaze. That was for the day when he'd leave, placing the muzzle over his face and breathing in a laboured fashion, ready to brave whatever creatures the radiation had created.

Dallon sighed as a thought began to form in the back of his head, growing larger and larger until it was all he could think about. There didn't seem to be any scientific name for them, so Dallon resorted to calling them obsessive thoughts, ones that disrupted his entire life.

_**Do it. Fix the mask or something bad will happen. Fix it or you'll die. Fix it. Fix it now.** _

He reached out and turned the mask so it faced the other way, but that wasn't enough for the obsessive thought.

_**No. Wrong way. Fix it properly or a fire will start. If you don't fix this mask then your life will end.** _

Frustrated, Dallon ruffled the mask out, turning it in the opposite direction. He draped one of the buckles over the front, breathing a sigh of relief when the thought disappeared.

Finally. Peace was restored.

He was let off easily this time. Normally the thoughts made him repeat it over and over until it was perfect. Everything had to be perfect.

That's why a world without people was Dallon's perfection. Nobody understood him, and he didn't understand them.

Now, nobody would have a choice but to listen to him.

Dallon took a seat at his desk, checking the time on his watch. It had been a gift from his deceased father, with and engraving on the back of some silly quote. Dallon didn't have time for the wistful dreamers of the world- not while there was actual work to be done, instead of writing idiotic stories about robots and demons and mermaids.

The only reason Dallon wore the watch was because of its no-nonsense design; leather strap with a rigid silver face and numbers printed in Times New Roman, not bejeweled or dazzling like other watches. Dallon had never cared much about his appearance other than to show people he was serious, not a frilly air-headed bimbo like the rest of his peers.

The watch face read 7:23, which was to be assumed in PM. Dallon had never lost track of time in his life, and a nuclear holocaust wasn't going to change that.

Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Dallon spotted something move, something white. He shook his head, chalking it up to being Nikola, his cat, even though her fur was pitch black.

Even though she was a girl, Dallon still named her after Nikola Tesla. He wished he had been alive in a time to speak to Tesla, idolizing the man as someone who would understand him. They would get along quite well, Dallon thought, but he wouldn't let his mind wander and further than that. Anything further was make-belief, and make-belief was idiotic and pointless.

The only form of make-belief Dallon's mind allowed was the doll of his wife, sitting idle in the corner.

Not even his own wife had listened to his warnings, the one woman who could compete with him. The only human Dallon had ever tolerated, and maybe even loved.

He had truly loved her, up until the moment she said 'no' and didn't climb down into the bunker with him. Breezy and him had been fighting all day, between which calculations were correct and arguing over if Nikola had been fed.

It hurt Dallon's heart when he climbed down the metal rungs of the ladder alone, knowing that in a few minutes Breezy, along with the rest of the world, would be burnt to a crisp.

Tensions had been gathering between nations for ages, something that happened throughout the course of history. But instead of the last two world wars, when this one broke out, everyone's finger was hovering over the nuke button. Nuclear warfare had evolved to the point where nearly each country had their own arsenal of weapons, waiting to destroy another country's entire population in a matter of seconds.

Dallon had gone to every congress meeting, had read up about America's recent grudges against countries in Asia, had inspected every small detail of writing in letters the Pentagon had released. And all of that lead up to the collision of nuclear weapons, leaving the world in total ruins. Any parts that were unaffected would've died off from the widespread radiation, mutating animals and plants, firestorms overtaking the world.

Based on Dallon's knowledge, the firestorms would die off in a few days, leaving smog and soot to cover the sun. Frost would overrun the world, leaving a devastating winter to roam for ages, turning the once vibrant earth into a wasteland for mutants to roam, glowing with radioactivity.

But Breezy didn't dabble in politics- therefore she believed everything the government fed them, about how America would reign over the rest of the world when the war was over, restoring their spot as number one, the spot the held after the Second World War. The government spoon-fed everyone lies, everyone except for Dallon, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue and heart.

In an attempt to busy himself, Dallon had created her out of a spare rice bag he found in the corner of his bunker. With his drafting pencil and straw from his mattress, Dallon recreated his wife, giving her the same bold lipstick she always wore and a dress of hers he had stolen before climbing down into his bunker.

He held that dress close as the moment of impact passed, two nuclear bombs colliding midair. Even though the collision was thousands of miles away, the bunker still shook ferociously, cans rolling onto the stone floor and denting. Dallon's mind nearly broke at his perfectly lined materials being shaken up, taking time to place them back on the shelves and whispering reassurance to himself. If he was religious, he'd pray, but Dallon always considered religion as reliable as a book of fairy tales.

Dallon hated how much they had been arguing that day, about how Dallon didn't cook or mow the lawn or let Nikola outside. Breezy was frustrated he spent all his time in the basement or preparing the bunker, pushing his glasses further up his nose and letting his hair become tangled, immersed in his studies like never before.

If his research was correct, right now it'd be pouring black radioactive rain outside, contaminating whatever rivers hadn't been boiled on impact. The scientific part of him wanted to push open the heavy bunker door and take a peek at the world, jotting down notes of the glowing debris and the smithereens of buildings to form proper hypothesis about what was going on. The world hadn't seen a nuclear disaster this big since Hiroshima or Chernobyl, one that wiping humanity entirely off the face of the planet.

Dallon remembered hearing about the Chernobyl disaster on their old TV, when he should've been at school, but instead, decided to stay home. His mother was long gone to work, leaving Dallon to be brainwashed by the fizzle of the tube TV, the way their voices cracked through the air.

He was only 8 at the time, but Dallon still understood what they were saying well enough. It was weeks after the initial disaster, but the area was still a radioactive zone, just as it would be for millions of years to come.

Young Dallon found it fascinating how quickly something this terrible could happen, and how it'd impact the world for the rest of time. Even at a young age, Dallon knew that something like this would happen once more, but on a much wider scale.

And now, it had happened. The world was nothing but ash, dust, debris and nuclear fallout, civilizations that had been burnt to the ground. The only person Dallon missed in the slightest was Breezy, chest aching with guilt about now forcing her down into the bunker.

"Ma chérie..." Dallon cooed to the doll, eyeing the camera perched on top of boxes in the corner of the room. As soon as he locked the door behind him and climbed down into the darkness, Dallon set the camera to record for future generations to study his way of living. It fell on the moment of impact, but Dallon readjusted it quickly, fixing his glasses and smoothing down his hair for his future children to see.

If Breezy had actually come down, Dallon would have a chance at procreation, as long as Breezy wasn't infertile. He wasn't ashamed that he was a virgin- sex was for the dreamers, and Dallon could continue on his path in life, unencumbered by sexual relationships. He had a suspicion that Breezy was having an affair with her colleague, but he couldn't care less.

That didn't mean that Dallon hadn't tried to have coitus with Breezy. He had done his research and due-diligence, but when night fell upon the town, she shook her head and disappeared to her own office, leaving Dallon empty-hearted and miserable.

Dallon didn't know how he'd manage to create the first generations of the new world, but he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. Right now, he was going to make amends with his rice-for-brains mimic of a wife, even if it would be played in future schools for all to see.

"I'm sorry amare..." He gently cupped the side of the rice bag, brushing his thumb over the stenciled-on lips. Breezy studied and taught Latin etymology at a university, which was where the pet name came from. Even if Dallon wasn't the best at languages, he studied French and Latin just for her, sometimes confusing the two for each other. He worked better in English science than linguistics.

"All I wanted was to keep you safe, to save you... if only you had listened." Dallon leaned in closer to the motionless bag, questioning his own sanity. Even though he worked best alone, being in solitude for who knows how long would take a toll on his brain, eroding it even more than it already had been.

Dallon and Breezy didn't kiss. There was once at their wedding, and then maybe some random time after, but that was it. Sometimes, he wondered if she married him for his house and inheritance.

But now, Dallon wanted nothing more than to kiss her, to run his hand through her straw hair. He wasn't a man of many emotions, but at times like this, when he was all alone in the darkness of his bunker, he could let himself get a bit carried away.

Dallon closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the bag, expecting nothing but the burlap material to greet him. But when they met with something cold and clammy, Dallon's eyes snapped open, staring directly into another man's.

He cried out, stumbling backwards onto the stone floor, heart racing fast enough to give him a stroke. The man reeled away in horror too, surrounded by a thin white outline, levitating in the air. Dallon could see straight through his torso to the doll behind him, body transparent and white, a little more faded around his finger tips.

A spectre.

"Wh-What the hell are you?! What are you doing here?" Dallon crawled away from him, bumping into the back post of his bed, getting dust on the bottom of his white dress shirt.

"What do you mean 'what the hell are you', you were just about to kiss a bag of rice!" The ghost raised his voice, pointing to the bag slumped over against the wall, floating further away from Dallon until half of him clipped through the wall.

Dallon shook his head, wondering if that can of beans he'd eaten was expired. Apparitions didn't exist- Dallon knew this as a definite fact. Than what was this thing doing in his bunker?

"That's n-none of your business- you're not even real!" Dallon maintained eye contact with the spirit as he felt around on his bed behind him, gripping tightly onto the handle of his knife. "What are you... s-some sort of hologram? A mirage?"

Hastily, Dallon jumped to his feet and swished the knife through the ghost's body, annoyance growing when the spectre only glanced down at it with an amused look on his face. It was as if Dallon was poking air, hand growing cold as he repeatedly stabbed the floating spirit, dropping the knife in defeat.

"A ghost, but nice try. And I have a name, you know." The spectre simpered, eyes crinkling as he smirked. Dallon hated how smug he was, taking another claw at him with just his hand, but the ghost's floral shirt only grew more clear around his arm as Dallon swatted at him.

"Ghosts aren't real... you're not real, you're a side effect of radiation poisoning." Dallon dashed to his desk, watching the ghost swim towards him from the corner of his eye, still grinning. Dallon murmured to himself, trying to piece together what chemical imbalance had created a hallucination as he scribbled down possible theories in his notebook. "Phantasms have been theorized, but never proven as a symptom of Acute Radiation Syndrome."

"You know what's a-cute?" The ghost chirped, resting his elbows next to Dallon at his desk and gazing at the side of Dallon's head. "A scientist like you, all holed away in his bunker... what happened anyways?"

Dallon remained silent, scratching his scalp as he found himself at a dead end, mind going in circles with no definite answer. He ignored the flakes of dandruff that fell like snow onto his dim desk, pushing his glasses further up his nose from where they'd sunk. He wasn't going to answer to an illusion, especially one his mind had created to be so... rousing.

"C'mon, I know you have a voice, why don't you tell me?" The spirit flipped upside down and then back up, brushing away the brown hair that fell into his deep-set eyes. "Such a nice, commanding voice should be put to use, pretty please?"

Dallon grumbled something under his breath in frustration, slamming the notebook closed.

**_No. Do it again. It didn't close properly. Do it again or all your notes will be erased._ **

He opened the book, then flipped it closed, voice becoming louder in his head.

_**Again. Do it again. You're not doing it right.** _

Dallon bit the inside of his cheek as he opened it once more, then shut it, then opened and shut it again.

"Are you... alright?" The spectre said, resting his head on Dallon's shoulder, the rest of his body floating nonchalantly behind him. Dallon couldn't feel his chin on his shoulder- he couldn't feel anything when he'd get stuck on a thought, hand beginning to cramp from how many times he had thrown the cover open to his tattered notebook.

His notebook was one thing that his mind never seemed to let him close properly, part of the reason it was so raggedy. As he shut it one last time, his brain finally let go of its obsession, letting him fall to the ground and cradle his head in his hands.

Getting stuck on mundane things was happening much too often these days. It exhausted Dallon to his core, a nauseous feeling beginning in his abdomen, throat burning.

Vomiting was the most common side effect of ARS, and while Dallon hadn't been exposed to any direct radiation, it still traversed through the ground. Little particles of nuclear fallout could have found themselves floating into his bunker, contaminating the otherwise sterile air, poisoning his bloodstream. Luckily, Dallon had collected enough hospital supplies to perform a proper blood transfusion, if the time came.

The ghost watched with wide eyes as Dallon grabbed his wastebasket and gagged, letting the nausea pass as his head hung heavy, drained from the past day.

A clammy hand cupped his face gently, just as he had cupped the rice bag's side. The spirit felt more real, but still not completely there, fingers tapping against Dallon's sweltering skin like a winter breeze.

"Something bad happened, didn't it?" The ghost whispered, sitting down cross-legged in front of Dallon, part of his arms and head cutting through the desk. "Humans are so fragile... you didn't take well enough care of yourself, did you?"

Dallon nodded bleakly, tears stinging at his eyes, blinking them away. Dallon never cried. He wasn't allowed to cry.

He had done everything he was supposed to, and it still found a way in. Part of Dallon still reigned triumphant at escaping the apocalypse, and part of him was disappointed that even after all that thorough research and preparation, he still felt dead inside.

Sometimes, Dallon wondered if he knew any emotions other than anger and frustration. Everyday he'd start off in a moderately good mood, but all it took was one obsessive thought to render him numb and emotionless.

Perhaps he was built that way to work more efficiently. Without emotions, Dallon didn't get distracted by petty things, like before the nuclear winter when he'd work in his basement workshop until he'd hear Breezy's car start in the garage.

When he'd come upstairs, face covered in smudges of oil, glasses knocked askew, he'd discover he worked through the entire night again. Dallon would rub the remainder of the oil off his face and begin his walk to work, briefcase in hand. That was, before turning back home, making sure all the lights were turned off properly and he hadn't left something on in his workshop, and then leaving the house again.

People avoided him at his job. Every cubicle around his was empty, afraid that Dallon would try to convince them the moon landing was fake, or some conspiracy crap like that. Dallon's brain may be put to use at night on his own projects, but he worked his day job mindlessly, voice monotone.

"Hi, you've reached the American Postal Service complaint department, please state your name and complaint for our record."

When five o'clock rolled around, Dallon would start his trek back home, stepping over the same sidewalk crack twenty times before he did it properly. As much as Dallon hated routines, he always performed a special one when he got home, or else something horrific would happen to him.

1\. Open the door so it doesn't creak. If it creaks, walk back to the sidewalk and start over.

2\. Place your house keys in the dish at the front door. Don't miss the dish. If your keys fall out, go back to the very beginning and start over.

3\. Check the fridge for dinner. If Breezy didn't leave anything, make a sandwich. Do not use the stove. If you use the stove, you will die.

4\. Read Breezy's note about working late. Confirm suspicions about an affair. Drop note in the wastebasket and cover it with other trash. Don't let Breezy see you threw it away. She will divorce you.

5\. Walk downstairs. Never step on the bottom step. If your foot touches the bottom step, you will fall and die.

If Dallon completed the routine perfectly, he could work peacefully for the rest of the night before the day would start again, growing more delusional with every sleepless night. It'd grow to the point where the shadows of his workshop begun talking to him, and he'd make conversation back, spilling out all the details of his latest project to the only people who cared.

That was why Dallon was so opposed to talking to the ghost. His entire life he'd blabbered to invisible people, ruled by a specific set of rules his mother had imprinted on him at a young age, terrified of disobeying what his mind made him do. Dallon had never broken free of the chains, and now, even after every bully was long dead, he still couldn't get a grip on reality.

"Let's go to bed, okay buddy?" The spirit placed his arms under Dallon's, groaning as he helped the tall man stand up, head almost brushing against the ceiling of the bunker while his just went through it.

Dallon wobbled over to the bed, taking off his shoes as the ghost followed him, then putting them back on, then taking them off again five more times. The spectre's face scrunched up at the sight of Dallon repeatedly taking his boots on and off, giving up and getting into bed with them on. The muddy soles would dirty his only set of clean sheets, but Dallon couldn't risk putting himself in danger if he took them off.

The ghost's hands grew a little more opaque as he pulled the blanket over Dallon's shivering body, emotions escaping him in a deep sigh. Dallon took off his glasses and put them on the ground, world fuzzy around him without them.

It was hard to believe that everyone was dead.

Everyone except Dallon.

The entire weight of the world was on his shoulders as Dallon adjusted his head, finally relaxing into the pillow and watching the ghost put out the candle. All he had to do was swipe his hand through it and the flame died, a tail of smoke puffing up before it dissolved into the darkness.

"By the way..." The spectre took a seat at the end of Dallon's bed, softly glowing in the blackness of the bunker. Dallon could spot Nikola's green eyes from across the room, seated on top of the bookshelf, watching the two of them warily.

"My name is Ryan." The spirit smiled, creating a dimple in his chin. Half-asleep, Dallon reached out to him, trying to grab onto his shoulder but ending up with a handful of air.

"Oh, you wanna cuddle? I'm so down to cuddle." Ryan crawled over Dallon's thin body, settling down on top of the thick army blanket, giving Dallon's nose a kiss even though Dallon shook his head.

Why would Dallon's mind create something so spunky, so improper, so...

Free?

If anything, Dallon's mind was the exact opposite of free.

He was still chained to his dead mother's insensible rules, the taunts of everyone around him, his wife's exasperated sighs.

Their voices rasped in his ear constantly, reminding him no one truly loved him, that no one would ever appreciate his company or research.

He was worthless. Even as the last man on earth, Dallon's life still held no worth to anyone. Nobody was there to accept him for who he was, crippled by the voices inside his head.

Nobody except for millions of corpses, the ones that hadn't been burnt to a crisp, radiation animating their dead bodies and making them jerk up. Not even a bunch of undead husks would listen to him.

"Hey, buddy, it's okay." Ryan floated off of Dallon's body, laying on the ceiling, staring him in the eyes. "I don't know what happened, but you're alive. Be thankful you're not a ghost- did you know I can't change my clothes?"

Dallon swallowed the cries that bubbled up in his throat, his mother's drunk slurs echoing through his mind.

"Real boys don't cry. You know what we do to boys who cry? We take them out back and shoot them, just as we should've with... with..."

She never finished her sentences, passing out before Dallon could discover who she shot for crying. He knew that what she was saying wasn't true. Nothing she ever said when she was drunk was true.

"Hey hey hey, don't cry, I didn't mean that. I mean, I can't change, but whatever happened must've been terrible." Ryan tapped his chin, sitting midair, gazing into the distance. "You know what, you can tell me tomorrow. Get some rest buddy."

Dallon shook his head, trying to justify once again talking to a hallucination. If there was even the slightest chance that Ryan was real, he'd have to abandon every scientific conclusion he'd come up with. It would disprove years of work- if the undead roamed the earth as phantoms, you could blame almost anything on them, denying science entirely.

As Dallon fell asleep, a soft breeze tickled his neck, then his face, and then that same pair of cold lips pecked his forehead.

Dallon didn't even care anymore.

Even if Ryan wasn't real, he hated how much he wanted him to be, how much he wanted someone to care about him in the slightest.

  
**PLEASE INSERT TAPE 1½**

↯

When Dallon woke up to the sound of an egg timer, he didn't recall the last day at all. The timer was to remind him to drink one glass of water, filled from his supply, rationing it for as long as possible.

Dallon didn't remember wearing his boots to bed, didn't remember the chilling touch of Ryan's hand, and especially didn't remember seeing the ghost at all.

So when Ryan jumped out of nowhere, Dallon spit his water out, stray droplets dribbling down his chin.

"What the hell!" He cried, setting down his metal glass on his desk. Every memory from the past day came flying back, from kissing Breezy's doll to meeting Ryan to opening and closing the notebook so many times his hands grew red.

"And good morning to you too. What time is it?" Ryan smirked and sat on the ceiling, body cloudy instead of completely clear. If it wasn't for his watch, Dallon wouldn't know the time, world above him just as dark as the bunker before he lit a candle.

Dallon rubbed his temples, refilling his glass of water and taking a seat at his desk. "Why should it matter to you? You aren't real. I could make you do whatever I wanted with my mind."

Ryan swam down to Dallon's level, sitting on the desk in front of him, knocking over a jar of drafting pencils in the process. "So do it."

Dallon shot him a dirty look, a knot of irritation growing in his head. He seethed at the challenging tone of Ryan's voice, the way he raised his eyebrows in expectation. "Alright, fine."

In the dim light of the candle, Dallon concentrated on moving Ryan, pushing him off the desk. In preschool, Dallon's mother had gotten one too many notes about Dallon shoving other children that she took him out of it entirely, leaving him home alone while kids his own age got to play and learn colours and shapes. At that age, Dallon was trying his hand at elementary math, reading every cookbook his mother left at home and watching programs on the television.

Ryan sat there with his triumphant grin, arms crossed, hair falling into his face once again. He was perfectly still, which should please Dallon, but it only rendered him angrier.

"I thought you could make me do whatever?" Ryan blinked innocently, ignoring Dallon's attempt to actually push him in real life. His hands only went through Ryan, smashing into the stone wall, shaking his aching knuckle as he drew a sharp breath in.

"Did your mother never teach you not to push?" Ryan stuck his tongue out at Dallon, leaving the desk to greet Nikola.

"My mother was a horrible woman. I raised myself better than she ever did." Dallon stated in a dead tone, rearranging his drafting pencils until the were in a perfect position. He had to speak over Ryan's _'pspspsp'_ to the cat, chasing her around the room as she ran away from the spirit.

"Hey science cutie, if I'm not real, than how can I do this?" Ryan smiled a wide grin and he picked up Nikola, floating to the ceiling and dropping her back down in surprise when she yowled, backing away. "Man, your cat is a bigger prick than you are."

"I'm not a prick. I just see no need for pointless conversation. Every word should hold a meaning." Dallon pulled out his notebook and began sketching new links between radioactivity and hallucinating, tying to make sense of the images he saw.

As he spoke of that, it reminded Dallon of one of his mother's rules, the way her tongue was sharp when she was sober and sloppy when she was drunk.

"Children should be seen and not heard. If you don't stop with that ridiculousness, you'll be a child your entire life, and nobody will listen to you."

She had been right about that. Dallon couldn't shake his obsessive thoughts, and nobody treated him like an adult. Not even his own wife.

Ryan drifted through the room, arms crossed behind his head, one leg propped up on the other. "Yeah, but talking is so fun sometimes, y'know? Just talking for no reason... man, life's crazy, isn't it? Hey, are you gonna tell me what happened to everyone else? Because it's looking pretty scary up there-"

"Would you shut up?" Dallon snapped, scribbling a dark tangle onto his sketchbook over a failed theory, breaking off the tip of the pencil from pressing so hard. His mother was right. Children shouldn't be heard, and Ryan was acting like the biggest child he knew.

"Jeez, fine. I'm going to take a walk, which- may I remind you- you cannot do." Ryan climbed up the ladder to the door, waving goodbye to Dallon as he clipped through the metal, leaving Dallon alone once again.

Finally, some peace and quiet. Dallon could untangle the mess inside his mind on paper, writing down every frantic thought his brain shot out about theories.

Possible drug induced reaction? Dallon had a shelve of various drugs, most of them to help with his anxiety attacks when the obsessive thoughts became too loud to handle. Just before the impact of the bombs hit, Dallon popped two of them and squeezed his eyes shut, hugging his knees to his chest as the bunker quavered.

These drugs had never made him see someone else before, but the possible combination with radiation could have caused it. Or so, Dallon was hoping. He thought he still had a few years before his brain totally gave out.

Nikola mewed, making Dallon push back his oak chair and dig into his refrigerated stash of rations, ones that would spoil quickly without power. He unscrewed the lid of milk and smelled the top, pouring some in a Petri dish when it still smelled fine enough.

As she lapped up the milk, Dallon sighed and scratched around her pointed ears, smiling softly at her tiny purr.

Dallon had gotten Nikola a few years ago, originally as a cat to experiment on. She was basically free, balding and covered in scabs when he picked her up from the owner's house, mind cracking at how dirty the home was. He never let his house run that filthy, even if it took a full day and night of repeated actions until his arms were cramped and red, biting his tongue so he didn't cry from the pain and the sting of the cleaning materials. Thankfully, Breezy was never home to see his skin rubbed raw by scrubbing the carpet in their living room, the one room Dallon never allowed himself to sit in, just as his mother had banned him from it when he was young.

But Nikola was just a little kitten needing some fixing up, and nobody was better at fixing broken creatures than Dallon. He nursed her back to full health and convinced Breezy to keep her, which she reluctantly agreed to. Sometimes, Dallon thought Breezy loved his cat more than she loved him, and most of the time, Dallon would choose Nikola over his wife.

Ryan appeared through the door, taking his time climbing down the rungs of the ladder, shaking his head.

"My god, what happened up there?" Ryan floated off of the last step, eyes widened in shock. "I've never seen animals like... that."

Normally Dallon would have jumped at an opportunity to take Ryan's firsthand account of the new world, but he was frozen in fear.

A thought was sneaking up on him, and no matter how much Dallon fought it, he couldn't stop the image from crossing his mind.

It was of him and Ryan, doing unspeakable things. Ryan was forcefully kissing him, shoving Dallon against the wall and slipping his hand down Dallon's pants, touching him gently. His tongue was warm against Dallon's, slick and wet, pushing further into Dallon's mouth as they both moaned softly, bodies closer than Dallon had ever been to another person.

Dallon's face grew three shades redder, blood rushing to his head in a wave, crashing down over him as he realized what he was thinking of against his will. Sure, he'd had intrusive thoughts about harming the people around him, which resulted in a night of self loathing and panic attacks, but he'd never had one like this.

He hated it more than anything, unable to look Ryan in his glassy eyes, vision tunneled in on Nikola.

How could think something like that? Had radiation poisoned more than his bloodstream, infesting his head with unpleasantly pleasant images of sexual acts? Or was Dallon built to fail- mind created to house these termites of horrible thoughts that ate away at the woodwork of his brain.

"-and a dog, and there was one that kinda looked like human, but also kinda like a hyena. Since when are there hyenas in Utah?" Ryan was talking away, sitting on air, ticking things off on his pale finger. "Uh, and a bunch of cockroaches. God I hate bugs."

Dallon couldn't stop thinking about what his mother said about men who touched other men, how they burnt in hell and how if Dallon ever loved another man how she'd kill him. Even after she was long dead, the ghost of his mother's teachings still haunted him, making Dallon break out into another anxiety attack.

He couldn't think that about Ryan. He wasn't allowed. And now something bad was going to happen because he couldn't control his unruly thoughts.

As Dallon's breathing grew ragged, Nikola scurried away from the dish of milk, frightened by the raspy noises. Dallon needed his pills to calm himself, but he couldn't stand up and walk over to the shelf. He couldn't even breathe.

The only thing Dallon knew was impending doom, waiting for someone to degrade him, or worse, hit him. The world was collapsing around him, bunker walls too tight, air too thin. His mother's barbed voice hissed in his ears, as sharp as razor blades, taking ever ounce of confidence away from Dallon.

_**You can't think that. Disgusting. You're a married man. You'll be punished.** _

"Hey hey hey, what's wrong?" Ryan lowered his voice, soft around the edges instead of its deep tone. He knelt down in front of Dallon, who was hiding his face in his knees, shaking uncontrollably. "I'm here buddy, what d'you need?"

Dallon couldn't even look at Ryan, wishing he had the strength to stand up and get his own medication, but instead, he was glued to the floor. He felt the chill of Ryan's hands on the back of his neck, which only worsened the guilt, scene flashing in front of his eyes. Dallon might be an atheist, but he was praying to God to stop the tightening of his chest, to forgive his sin.

"The- The p-pill-" Dallon managed to get out, hand going straight through Ryan as he reached out for balance.

Realization cracked on Ryan's face as Dallon's hand slapped the floor, now curled in the fetal position, fending off his tears. He couldn't let Ryan see him cry. Real boys didn't cry.

"Which one?" Ryan was over at the shelf, turning over orange bottles for their names, capsules clacking against the plastic sides.

"F- Flu-" Dallon couldn't get out anything else, throat closing up, enveloped by his mother's harsh words. His muscles had grown tense, expecting someone to whip his hands with a ruler or to drag a hairbrush down his arms until they bled, both familiar punishments his mother used.

"Fluoxetine?" Ryan's hands were more lifelike as he gripped the bottle, running over to Dallon's ration of water and pouring him a glass.

The tempo of his heart seemed to beat irregularly, thankfully nothing resembling the rhythm of music. He didn't want to anger the remainder of his mother's abuse anymore than he had, implanted in his brain at a young age, never to be rid of.

_**You're a disgusting human being, Dallon James Weekes. A man should never think of such unholy things.** _

Ryan's hands felt like real ones as he passed Dallon the bottle and the cup, fingers briefly touching. His hands shook as he opened the pill bottle, fishing out a capsule and downing it with water, trying to justify his abhorrent thought.

"-Buddy? Hey, listen to me, it's gonna be alright." Ryan was sitting on the floor with him, hand rubbing Dallon's back even though he couldn't feel it, smoothing down the wrinkles of his dress shirt. "Hey, what happened there?"

His mother. That's what happened.


	2. TAPE TWO: A EXAMINATION ON THE LASTING EFFECTS OF CHILD ABUSE AND HOW THEY AFFECT THE ADULT MIND

**TAPE TWO: A EXAMINATION ON THE LASTING EFFECTS OF CHILD ABUSE AND HOW THEY AFFECT THE ADULT MIND, CIRCA YEAR 2020 / YEAR 0 ANH (AFTER NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST)**

_WARNING: Some footage may be distressing to viewers. Viewer discretion is advised._

↯

Dallon could still recite his mother's rules by heart.

They were plastered to every wall in the house, and even years after he had torn them down, Dallon still saw the carefully typed words on the stripey wallpaper.

_1\. No crying._

_2\. No music whatsoever._

_3\. No eating without permission._

_4\. No speaking unless you are spoken to._

_5\. No sitting in the living room._

_6\. No going in your brother's room._

_7\. No silliness._

_8\. No make belief._

There were too many issues with the rules to count. Silliness referred to Dallon's obsessive thoughts, when he'd close the door over and over because it didn't click properly. If his mother ever caught him doing that, she whacked his knuckles with a ruler and forced him to close it once, which always resulted in an anxiety attack.

What if something bad happened because he didn't close it properly? What if someone broke in a murdered his mother and him, all because Dallon couldn't close the door the right way?

Another issue- Dallon didn't have a brother. Or so, he never saw him. The door to his "brother's" room was always shut, locked tightly with a key on the ring his mother carried around. At night, Dallon's door was locked the same way, to make sure he wasn't sneaking out and eating food, or god forbid, sitting in his mother's precious living room.

After her death, Dallon opened the door to discover an empty crib and a bunch of toys strewn about, covered in a thick layer of dust. He always knew his mother had a miscarriage before he was born, but he never knew she kept all the unused baby stuff. It seemed his mother still believed she had the baby, disappearing into the room at all hours of the night to cradle an empty blanket, shushing the nonexistent child she loved more than Dallon.

He knew the majority of the rules resulted from how she'd not only lost a child, but also a husband, one who left her by choice.

Dallon was smart enough to know the only reason she kept him so in line was because she was scared of losing another family member, and Dallon was susceptible to getting lost easily. Nobody cared about children with mental illnesses, and she didn't want Dallon turning out like his father.

Except most of the time, her rules terrorized Dallon, body trembling whenever he saw a ruler. When she forced him to do things once, it only frequented the thoughts.

_**Do it again. Again. It's not good enough. You're not good enough. Again.** _

For his entire life, Dallon lived after those rules. He had never touched his mother's fancy pillows on the couch, not even after he got the house and the pillows were replaced with ones Breezy liked. He never let himself listen to music- if something even distantly resembled a rhythm, he'd cover his ears and force himself to block it out. The only rule Dallon ever disobeyed was the silliness, because he couldn't break it, couldn't stop doing things over and over until they were perfect.

If they weren't perfect, he was punished.

Sometimes Dallon nearly starved, out of fear that he couldn't break a rule, couldn't anger his dead mother. That was why he was forcing himself to chew the canned tomatoes, swallowing them down hard, hand shaking as he stabbed another forkful.

Ryan hadn't asked him anymore questions after his breakdown, watching from the other side of the room as Dallon chewed on the same diced tomato for five minutes, gagging when he finally got it down. The nausea had never left, laying thick in the bottom of his stomach as he tortured himself, dragging the fork against the edge of the can until it made the right noise.

"Hey buddy..." Ryan floated down to sit in front of Dallon, but Dallon refused to look up, staring at the pink water the tomatoes bobbed in. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Dallon shook his head, stuffing the image deep down in his brain, pushing his glasses up with the back of his hand.

No eating without permission.

He was disobeying a rule. Even after years of forcing the food down, it still broke his soul to turn against his mother. He had hoped that after her death he'd be free, but he couldn't shake the mountain of guilt, fork clattering against the ground as he dropped it.

"Are you sure...?" Ryan asked softly, reaching out the stroke Dallon's thigh in comfort.

No. Ryan was touching him. That wasn't allowed.

Dallon set the can down and tried to breathe, picking at his cuticles, focusing on feeling his fingertips. The egg timer rang out, making him jump, startling Nikola from across the room.

Water.

As Dallon drank another glass, Ryan followed close behind, making the candle flicker on his desk and shift to the side.

**_Fix it. Move it or it'll fall. Do it._ **

Dallon moved the wax finger so it sat upright, but that wasn't enough for the prison his mind was in.

_**Pick it up. Do it properly.** _

Hot wax dripped down the side of the candle, but Dallon couldn't feel it on his fingers as he gripped the thin stick, flame dying out in his quick movements.

Ryan could tell Dallon was about to break down again from the tremble of his lower lip, so he grabbed the lighter and re-lit it, trying to bring Dallon's attention away from it.

"Hey buddy... why can't you eat?" Ryan said softly, luring Dallon away from the candle, gently holding onto his cheek.

"I'm not allowed..." Dallon murmured, sitting down on his bed and tapping his fingers together, trying to steady himself. It was a nervous tic, pressing the pads of his fingers together and rubbing them, feeling his own fingerprints.

"Who says that?" Ryan asked, sitting next to Dallon on the carefully folded blanket.

"My mother... she has rules." Dallon swallowed, a lump in his throat at the thought of the horrid rules.

"But you don't have to follow them anymore buddy... she's gone." Ryan could piece together what had happened outside well enough.

"I can't... I can't be like my father..." Dallon's breaths had staggered again, running his hands through his hair, itching his scalp. "I can't be a faggot."

Ryan expression quickly changed, from sympathetic to outright puzzled, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"He... he left her for another man. He broke our family." The words alone were unearthing horrible memories of all the things his mother had told him, mostly while drunk.

Dallon sat at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast in silence, pushing the mush of the oatmeal around. His mother sat across from him with her perfect black curls, applying her lipstick for work and staring into a compact mirror, ignoring Dallon completely.

"Mother..." Dallon spoke under his breath, frightened at breaking the rule. But his curiosity had grown too big to ignore, questions popping up one after another.

That's what she was. Mother. Not mom, not ma, nothing personal or loving. Dallon never thought of her as anything else but his parent, not someone who was there for him.

"What is the rule Dallon?" She snapped, a sharply manicured finger tapping the paper taped to the table, right at rule number 4.

"I know, I'm sorry mother." Dallon looked down at the watery oats, just as grey as he felt. "But could you tell me about father?"

"Dallon James Weekes, what has gotten into you today?" Her voice impaled Dallon's heart, sinking lower into the kitchen chair, afraid of getting his knuckles rosy right before school.

"I'll tell you about your father when you're old enough." She was too invested in her makeup to care about punishing him, snapping the mirror shut and ruffling out her victory curls, the lowest ones twirling around her ear. His mother believed appearances were the most important aspect of a person, part of the reason she hated Dallon's unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes, dressing him in smooth sweaters and polo shirts. She dressed like it was the 60s, wearing her high-waisted skirts and blouses tucked into them, bright red lipstick and a beauty mark on her cheek Dallon watched her draw on every morning. Their house was done the same way, furniture covered in a thin lining of plastic, styles people hadn't used for ages.

"How old?" Under the table, Dallon tapped his feet together in an irregular rhythm, doing it as many times as his brain needed.

"...12. Now hurry upstairs and wipe that eye pigment off your face, you look like a fag." She slung her purse over her shoulder and left for work, high heels clacking against the checkerboard tiles of the kitchen floor.

Confused, Dallon wiped his eye with his hand, nothing rubbing off onto his fingers. There was no pigment- it was the purple rings around his eyes, caused by nights of frantically turning over in bed, unable to shake the feeling that he did it wrong.

That was when the countdown began. Dallon kept a track of the days until his birthday, when he could finally discover why his mother hated his father so much. All he knew then was that he had left when Dallon was younger, and that his mother despised him more than anything in the world.

When May 4th finally rolled around, nobody at school wished him a happy birthday. Nobody knew it was his birthday- nobody wanted to talk to the weird kid, desk pushed against the wall in the corner, the one who got stuck in loops like a broken record player. Teachers might praise his schoolwork, but they got fed up with his obsessive thoughts, sharpening pencils until they were nothing but a tiny nub, or disrupting class to move his chair to a different spot because his mind told him to.

So Dallon raced home after school and set the egg timer for a few hours, right at the time he was born at; 9:04PM. Even though his mother wouldn't be home for hours, he sat there, watching the clock tick, resetting the egg timer when it went off. There was no reason to keep resetting it other than the game his mind played, forcing him to reset it every time it rang out, too close to resembling music for comfort.

He sat with his legs crossed on the black and white tiles, watching as the final minute ticked, sand running through the glass. As the egg timer rang out one last time, Dallon turned it off and darted up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

His mother's bedroom door was cracked open, low light coming from her lamp, smoke hanging in the air. She took a drag of her skinny cigarette, eyelids low, makeup smudged across her face. Dallon stepped over empty bottles, sitting down on the carpet of her room and staring at her drunken face, the blush on her cheeks somehow winding up on her forehead.

Dallon could smell the booze and smoke on her breath as she coughed, looking down at her child with disdain. "What's your problem?"

"Mother..." Dallon spoke quietly, tapping his hands together behind his back, thinking of what questions to ask. "I'm twelve now... what happened to father?"

Her laugh frightened Dallon, a loud snicker that made witches cover their ears, making Dallon's blood run cold.

"Dillon..." She hiccuped, swirling around the wine bottle in her hand. She never got his name right when she was drunk. "Your father was a faggot... he ruined your life!"

Dallon backed away from the bed as she raised her voice, slurring all of her words and pointing at him with a bright red nail. "And if you don't smarten up, you're gonna be just as big of a fag as him..."

His heart was thumping in his ears, obsessive thoughts blocking out all other ones, trying to fight off the urge to stand up and make his mother's bed. "W-What did he do?"

"Oh I'll tell you what he did, I'll tell you..." His mother snorted, rolling over on the bed, perfect victory curls now flattened and tangled. "He ran away with his bandmate, that's what he did. Started that stupid band and the devil took him away, made him fall in love with another man."

Dallon's back was pressed against the wall, frozen in fear, watching his mother's face twist into something furious. "And he left us, left me all alone with a retarded kid... I wish you were never born Dalton, I wish we used protection that night instead of having an idiot."

Her voice had grown sharp, honing in on poor Dallon as he trembled, choking back sobs. Disobeying the rules while she was drunk was twice as dangerous, and he definitely couldn't cry now.

Being called these slurs was a regular occurrence at this point. Dallon knew his mother wanted him to play sports instead of watching the television and reading, ripping his books to shreds when she caught him hiding away inside and dropping the pieces in front of him.

Dallon knew he wasn't supposed to be born. He knew his life was worthless, which was part of the reason he worked so hard. He wanted to be worth something to someone.

Thankfully his mother had fallen asleep, snoring loudly as he crept out of the room, wiping away his tears and sniffling. Dallon wanted nothing more than to meet his dad, even if he was a queer. He knew that his dad would actually love him for who he was.

But months later, his mother received the news that he died, only because he had to stop paying child support. It made Dallon bitter when she grinned and laughed without a care in the world, happy that his father was dead while Dallon's heart tumbled.

And now, as Dallon sat wearing the only thing left from him, he wanted nothing more than to hug someone and cry. But both of those things were against the rules, trapping his mind in a cage and refusing to budge.

"Oh buddy, I'm so sorry..." Ryan wrapped an arm around Dallon's shoulders, watching as his eyes filled with forbidden tears. "Hey, you can cry now. I give you permission, alright?"

Dallon shook his head, drawing in shivering breaths, trying to keep his sobs at bay. Could that even work? Could Ryan- who was still up for debate of being a figment of Dallon's imagination- break his mother's rules?

"Listen, I'm here for you. And I'm proud, I mean; you survived the end of the world, how cool is that?" Ryan smiled softly, pushing up the sleeves of Dallon's dress shirt and rubbing his forearm, listening to Dallon's first cry in ages.

That was the sentence that broke the dam, eyes flooding with years of un-shed tears, sobbing his heart out into the silence of the bunker. No one had ever said they were proud of Dallon. No one was ever there for him.

At that moment, Dallon didn't care if he was breaking all his rules. He wanted Ryan to be real more than anything, to hug him and to know someone cared about him.

"Aw buddy, there there, I'm here." Ryan pulled Dallon to his chest, part of his body going through Dallon's, letting the man lay on the hardened part of his shoulder. "You don't have to listen to her anymore, okay buddy?"

Dallon's body shook like a house in an earthquake as he cried, tears dripping through Ryan and onto his blanket, trying to grasp onto the cold air of his body. It made his normally hollow chest fill with too many emotions to handle, swirling through the veins of his heart, aching behind his ribcage.

His sobs turned into long breaths, breathing in the stale air of the bunker, tapping his fingers together and letting his mind swim.

He had never cried like that before, nose stuffed up from heaving all the air out of his lungs, something breaking inside him. Crying wasn't allowed, and now something bad was going to happen.

"Look at me, hey, look at my eyes," Ryan snapped his fingers in front of his face, staring into the depths of Dallon's soul. "You're okay buddy, you'll be okay."

Dallon shook his head. How could Ryan know that? How could Ryan know what it was like to be trapped inside his own mind, needing to perform the same action over and over just so he could feel alright, just so he could live his life?

Sometimes, Dallon wondered what he could accomplish if he wasn't ruled by his thoughts. His mind and knowledge spanned on like universes, new stars born every minute, some collapsing in on themselves, some lost to the pure magnitude of his brain.

But Dallon was stuck in one corner, holed in like he was by the bunker, walls of rules restricting him from truly doing anything meaningful. No matter how much Dallon pushed against them, chains rattling, he could never break free from the horrible cycle of obsessive thoughts.

And just when he was vulnerable, another intrusive thought bit at his brain, latching onto the crammed canvas of his mind.

Ryan was sitting on Dallon's lap, so real he could feel his weight, kissing him just as filthily as last time. Dallon could feel his underwear grow tighter, aroused like he never had been before, fondling Ryan in any spot he could reach like he couldn't control himself.

Was this how Dallon reacted as soon as someone cared about him? Like a savage animal, unable to control his unwanted sexual thoughts towards Ryan? And Dallon couldn't be gay- he wasn't allowed.

"Hey, uh, you wanna see something buddy?" Ryan tried to get Dallon's attention away from whatever attack he was about to have, floating away from the bed and to the back wall. "I think I still have the tapes from when I was alive... wait right here."

Dallon began to rock on the bed, tapping his foot rapidly, head bombarded with the worst types of thoughts. The ones that told him he was going to be punished for thinking so horribly, that he was a disgusting person who could never create the new world after the nuclear winter.

Anger stirred in his gut, mad that everyone else was too stupid to listen to him. They should've listened to his warnings so he would be the only person left, so he didn't have to suffer like this all on his own.

He hated people. He hated everyone who ridiculed him, who refused to give him the help he needed, who imprinted such illness on him when he was a child.

He hated his mother, his father for leaving, and Ryan for making him feel this way. He hated Breezy for abandoning him, hated her for cheating, hated her for ignoring his pleas for help.

Dallon needed help, and the only person left to give it to him was a ghost.

Dallon realized he barely knew anything about Ryan, or how he died, or what he was doing living in his bunker. He had given up on trying to figure out if he was a hallucination, and accepting that the paranormal could be real.

He was losing it.

Not even his medication could keep the thoughts at bay, hitting his heel against his mattress, unable to stop. He couldn't stop, or something terrible would happen.

Ryan returned carrying a pile of cassettes, names written on the side in marker, like 'SOCIAL CLIMB' and 'DO IT ALL THE TIME'. They had the same ghostly glow as Ryan did, becoming more solid when he fully materialized.

"Here, hold onto these for a minute and I'll be right back." Ryan dumped them into Dallon's arms, disappearing back into the bunker wall.

But Dallon couldn't focus on what Ryan was doing. He couldn't focus on anything except that horrid egg timer, ticking louder and louder in his ear, growing faster with every tap of his foot to the ground. The tempo increased until his heart was beating the same speed, world spinning around Dallon, threatening to collapse over him.

Dallon felt sick to his stomach, trying to ground himself before having another attack, blocking out the ghost of his mother rapping his knuckles with the wood and watching Ryan return with a TV in his arms.

Growing up, Dallon never had any technology other than the ancient tube television his dad had bought for them. After he left, his mother threw out everything he touched, except for that television. Dallon knew she wanted to throw him out too, the kid riddled with issues she was stuck with.

Dallon knew he was never supposed to be born, that he was a mistake. That's why Dallon was unfazed when he found her dead in bed, an unlit cigarette hanging out the side of her mouth, bright red lipstick smudged onto the top of the bottle of wine.

Dallon knew he killed her. He knew that she couldn't stand to be around him, a reminder of the husband that left her, drowning her thoughts in alcohol. But while Dallon still adhered to her rules, he couldn't care less that she was dead.

Her abuse would always live inside him, pointed voice stinging his head, keeping Dallon in line.

And there was no escape for Dallon. He couldn't escape the pain like she had, tormented by his own thoughts, repeating things until he hurt himself.

Ryan sat in front of the TV, toying with its buttons, smacking the screen when it went fuzzy. "Hey buddy, could you hand me those?"

Dallon passed Ryan the pile of cassettes silently, finally breaking out of his loop of tapping his foot, body slumping over in defeat. You would think that after everyone who ever hurt Dallon was dead, he'd be free, but it was the opposite.

He didn't want to be alone anymore. The silence was worse than the bustle and chatter of people, nothing there to distract him from the chains holding him down.

The TV flickered before a video appeared, fuzzy and distorted, relapsing over itself until the picture cleared.

"See, that's me." Ryan pointed to the blue-haired drummer at the side with a pale finger. But Dallon was mesmerized by the lead singer, the tinny sound playing back at him, crackling with age.

**Music.**

Dallon had never heard music before. Sure, the train played a little chime when it left, and he'd picked up snippets of it around town, but Dallon had never experienced a true song before.

Normally he'd be froze in fear, covering his ears and demanding Ryan turn it off. His mother's voice would scream in his ear, whacking the ruler across his hands, shoving him into his room for the rest of the day and night. Punishments would be in order, like throwing away Dallon's stash of books, or forcing him to sit still on a chair and not fidget or change anything.

But Dallon stared at the screen in astonishment, mouth open in awe, watching the two figures play their instruments like the world was ending.

It was **beautiful.**

The melody seeped into his eardrums, synth, bass, drums and voice working together to create the best sound Dallon had ever heard. He never knew someone's voice could be so smooth, ricocheting around his brain, melody filling the small bunker with light.

The lead singer played the bass like there was no tomorrow, falling to his knees, strumming the strings almost robotically.

Dallon didn't know voices could be used for something other than berating him, notes curling around his mind, halting every terrible thought he had and forcing him to listen closely.

It was wonderful. The song lifted the weight off his chest, bringing him to another world full of energy and life, staring at the screen like he did as a child.

"Hey, Dallon kinda looks like you..." Ryan gestured to the lead singer, ignoring how hypnotized Dallon was, letting the song fade away as the characters on screen froze. "Man, he _really_ looks like you, minus the glasses."

If he wasn't so enthralled, Dallon might have panicked and broke down. But the music put him in a trance, gazing at the still people on the screen, colours brighter than anything he'd ever seen.

"That's... that's my name." Some of the fog cleared from Dallon's head, uttering quietly to Ryan, confused on why the lead singer resembled him so closely. Same thick brown hair, same lanky figure, same tired blue eyes.

Something clicked inside Dallon, puzzle pieces of his mother's slurred words fitting together, every story he'd heard about his father stringing into a story.

That was his father.

The man on the screen was his father, and that was the band he'd ran away to create.

That meant...

Ryan was the man his father ran away with.

And Dallon's real name was Dallon junior.

It overwhelmed Dallon's fragile mind, nearly falling off the bed as the world spun around him, holding his head in his hands.

No, it couldn't be. Dallon was never supposed to learn about his father. He was never supposed to listen to music.

"Are you okay?" Ryan said, turning the TV off and sitting next to the petrified Dallon.

Dallon covered his ears, expecting his mother's voice to screech, holding out for his worst punishment yet.

Not only had he broken a rule and listened to music, he saw his father. The man his mother hated more than she hated Dallon. The man she'd worked so hard to keep Dallon from becoming.

No wonder she hated Dallon- he was the miniature version of his father. Every time she saw him, she had to see the man who abandoned her, the man who left her with a toddler who couldn't do anything properly.

But her voice never came to punish him, hissing that Dallon was in trouble. Instead, it was just Ryan's deep voice in his ear, reassuring him and rubbing his back.

"It's okay buddy, everything's alright. I'm here now, okay?"

Dallon stared at the wall, beyond stupefied by his revelation. Sure, he had met his father when he was young, but there was nothing he could remember clearly about him.

Dallon knew why his mother hid music. Because his blood ran with his father's- he'd fallen in love with it immediately, the thick tempo, the wonderfully strange tune that embraced him like Ryan's hug.

He wanted to make music like that.

It was so enchanting it was addicting. Dallon had never loved anything more than the sound it made, a sound that let him forget about every horrible thing, that sucked him into a forgotten world.

"Play another one." Dallon said, voice quiet, like he didn't want his mother to hear. "Please."

Ryan raised his eyebrows in surprise, hesitating a moment before getting up and picking another cassette out of the pile, the aforementioned 'SOCIAL CLIMB' one.

Dallon got up and sat himself closer to the tiny television, watching as the logo of the band appeared, then the video.

Ryan's hair was different in this one, and his father's was longer, but the music was just as magical. Dallon let his mind be swept away in the rising and falling harmony, voices layered over each other, sounds Dallon had never heard before. Ryan sat there next to him, watching just as intently, a small smile on his face.

Near the end of the video, the camera got close to his father, and there was no doubt that he was Dallon's other parent. Bewildered by the resemblance, Dallon touched his own face, wondering how it was possible that he was watching his birth father's music.

"You alright there, buddy?" Ryan gave him a concerned glance once the music video ended, screen frozen on the final scene of his father gazing in the mirror.

"That's... my dad." Dallon touched the figure on the TV, screen warm against the pad of his finger, little pixels flickering.

His dad. Not his father. Dallon didn't even remember him and he already loved him, more than he'd ever loved his mother. And he missed him dearly.

Ryan's face broke into recognition, looking at Dallon with different eyes than before. "You're Dal's kid?"

Dallon nodded slowly, eyes flitting back to the screen, still trying to wrap his mind around this.

It was odd that his thoughts had stayed quiet, a refreshing break from their constant harassment. Dallon was afraid of setting them off again, so he focused on the tiny pixels of the screen, a bit more modern than his beloved television had been.

"...He really loved you, y'know." Ryan was quiet for a few moments before speaking up again, levitating a few inches off the bed, head cutting through the ceiling. "He never wanted to leave you... he wanted to bring you with him and save you. We both wanted that."

Dallon tried to imagine what his life would have been like if his father had taken him with him when he was young, if he had never been subject to his mother's abuse. Maybe Dallon wouldn't be as broken as he was today- maybe he could've lived a normal life and gotten the help he needed, with his dad and Ryan.

But Dallon knew he wouldn't be alive today then. If he lived with his father, Dallon would've never been pushed to the brink of his mental capacity, would've never been enough of an outcast to care about nuclear warfare.

And as much as he wanted to be crowned a hero to the new world, Dallon wished he'd just died along with everyone else- that he'd lived a normal life surrounded by people that loved him, and didn't have to be alone.

Dallon didn't want to be alone anymore. All his life, he thought he'd love to be in solitude, to exist in a world without the nuisance of humans. All those nights spent alone in his workshop, or tossing and turning in his bedroom, not only trapped in the room, but trapped inside his mind too.

Dallon always thought it was others' fault, that people were the reason he was sick. But the blame was only passed from his father, to his mother, to Breezy, and now, Ryan.

Maybe it was Dallon's fault he was here, alone in his bunker, walls tighter than ever.

Maybe he wanted to get away from it all, the pain, the thoughts, the crippling remains of his mother's abuse.

Maybe he wanted to fall into Ryan's solid arms, to truly feel him instead of a thin breeze, to finally be loved by someone.

Maybe he wanted to be finally loved by someone.


	3. TAPE THREE: A DEMONSTRATION OF THE EXTREME EFFECTS OF MENTAL ILLNESS AND SOLIDARITY

**TAPE THREE: A DEMONSTRATION OF THE EXTREME EFFECTS OF MENTAL ILLNESS AND SOLIDARITY, CIRCA YEAR 2020 / YEAR 0 ANH (AFTER NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST)**

_WARNING: Some footage may be extremely distressing to viewers. Viewer discretion is advised._

↯

Death didn't scare Dallon.

It never had, from when he'd picked apart the corpse of a dead bird, to when he discovered his mother's body, wine-stained sheets twisted around her.

She had been acting normally all morning as Dallon got ready for school, dreading having to face the stumpy brick building. Standardize testing was today, and while Dallon could answer the questions no problem, he always got marks taken off for whatever thoughts plagued him during that test. Yesterday, he had to stand up and sit back down in his chair a good ten times before his mind let go, which resulted in a low grade for "cheating".

So Dallon stared at his grey mush, the same grey mush he was served every morning like clockwork, clinking the spoon against the bowl rapidly.

Silently, his mother snatched the bowl and spoon away, dark eyes piercing Dallon's blue ones. Even though no words fell past her bright red lips, Dallon could hear her reprimand him, skirt swishing behind her as she continued washing dishes.

Dallon could feel his mind begin to run loose, so he tapped his fingers together instead of hitting the spoon, trying to make up for the obsessive thought he'd been caught in.

As always, his mother left before him, checking her reflection in every mirror before finally stepping out the door. Dallon finally excused himself from the empty table and plodded up the stairs, tripping over his oversized pants, stopping to roll up the ends. While he was tall as an adult, Dallon had been small and wiry growing up, which meant most of the clothes his mother gave him were too big or hand-me-downs.

It always took Dallon a while to pack his bag, but on this particular day his mind decided to be particularly picky, taking books in and out of his bag until he was sure the pages wouldn't be wilted. So when he checked his watch and discovered he was late, Dallon stumbled down the stairs and out the door, feet slapping against the sidewalk in his cramped shoes.

School had been a nightmare, desk shoved up against the wall, staring at the white paint peeling to reveal beige underneath. When teachers weren't looking, Dallon picked at it, creating a bigger and bigger patch of tan on the wall in front of him.

No one noticed. No one ever noticed Dallon unless it impacted them, leaving the weird, scraggly kid to work in the corner.

When he arrived at his house, Dallon wiped his feet on the doormat obsessively, worried about tracking mud into the house even though it was dry outside. Finally, he unlocked the front door and scurried upstairs, shutting himself away in his room until dinner.

But dinner never came. Dallon was so caught up in his textbook he didn't watch the time tick by, or the sun set. It was only when his stomach grumbled that he looked at his watch, wondering why his mother wasn't home yet.

Quietly, Dallon crept down the stairs, peeking his head around the banister into the kitchen. Their townhouse was quite small, so the first floor held the living room and kitchen, their second floor had a washroom, the locked nursery and their bedrooms, and the basement held the washing machines and would be home to Dallon's workshop in the future.

From his spot on the stairs, Dallon could spot the entirety of the kitchen, dark and cold. So was his mother's precious living room, pillows perked up and untouched for years, couch covered in a layer of plastic.

Dallon's mind started to rush with worries, wondering if someone had broken in and taken his mother, or if he somehow was responsible for her bus crashing on her way home.

What if he caused that? What if the only member of his family was dead because of him? Even if Dallon didn't love her, he didn't think he could live with the death of his mother on his hands. It would break his fragile brain completely.

Dallon scampered back up the stairs, tripping once more over his corduroy pants, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. On his way down, he hadn't notice the yellow glow from his mother's door, lamp turned on.

Slowly, Dallon pushed open the door, bones chilled by its ominous creak. Even in the dim light he could spot his mother laying on the bed, the red wine that stained the carpet, and the thick smell of smoke that never fully left the room.

"Mother...?" Dallon said softly, pushing the blanket off of her body, frightened that she would snap up and punish him for being awake so late. He knew well enough that she was unpredictable when she was drunk- that he had to treat her like a sleeping bear and not poke her.

Her body was completely limp as Dallon rolled her over, muscles tensing up at the way her eyes stared into the distance, lifeless and dead. Where there usually sat a deep-rooted hatred and anger, like the eyes of a snake, now sat nothing at all, glassy and staring past Dallon.

"M-Mom?" In his panic, Dallon didn't hear the name slip out of his mouth, all the blood rushing to his head in a red tidal wave. Her cold skin pricked at Dallon's fingertips, like rose thorns made of ice, skin grey and pasty in the light.

On the other side of her sat a wine bottle, the rest of its contents spilled across the sheets, like it was the blood she never bled. Dallon could spot the smudges of her cherry lipstick on the rim, the last bit of life she ever held on the edge of the bottle, years of makeup wiped away on her face to reveal the tired woman Dallon never saw.

All of sudden, as if someone flipped a switch, Dallon went numb. A flood of stars washed over his body, gazing at his dead mother emotionlessly, contemplating what to do with the body. His heart stopped its frantic beating and resumed its normal tempo, same with his quickened breaths, all feeling lost in the hollow cavern in his chest.

He didn't care if she died. Dallon had been hoping of this day for ages, the day he'd finally be free of her abuse.

So Dallon clasped his hand around her bony wrist and dragged her out of bed, ignoring the clunk of her body to the ground and the way her hand felt as if it was slipping out of its socket. He wasn't mindful of the door as he dragged her out, letting her hair get tattered on the ground and her skull crack against the doorway.

If she wasn't dead before, she better be now.

Dallon pushed the body down the stairs, watching as it rolled down the carpeted steps, skirt twisted around her Barbie legs.

Every normal emotion for a fifteen-year-old to have was gone, an absence of any fear inside Dallon. The only thing he could think about was where to put the body, calculating what day garbage pickup was on and how fast human remains decomposed.

Dallon wasn't scared. He wasn't triumphant either. He was empty, staring at the thick strands of knotted black hair, the unnatural position her limp body had twisted in, the beauty mark on her chin that had smudged in such a way to look like a jagged scar.

She did this to herself, and Dallon couldn't feel any less remorse.

He went down the stairs slowly, careful not to trip on his pant legs, and grabbed her wrist again, dragging her through the house. Dallon was deaf to the shatter of vases as her body knocked against them, shards of glass lining the floor like sheets of ice- she held so much more love for them than she did for Dallon. He was happy that they broke.

Wind whipped his hair around his face as he pushed opened the back door, dragging her unconscious body through the mud path, arm twisted unnaturally. The black garbage bags were in the shed, one of the many places Dallon had been locked in as punishment. He'd spent so much time in there he could memorize the placement of every item, every gardening tool and piece of junk his father left behind, the type of stuff his mother forgot to discard.

The wind slammed the shed door shut behind Dallon as he reached for the bag, leaving his dead mother in a puddle of rainwater. It didn't make him jump; he was too hyper focused on the task at hand, so much adrenaline pumping through him Dallon couldn't feel his own body. He couldn't feel the coolness of the dirt seep into his socks, couldn't feel the soft breeze turn into something violent and harsh, couldn't feel his mother's glazed-over eyes stare at the overcast sky.

Nothing. Dallon was empty inside.

His mother's head rolled back as Dallon tried to stuff her into the bag, grabbing her under the shoulders and groaning as her legs dragged in the mud, still holding onto one high heel.

Before discarding of her entirely, Dallon yanked the ring of keys from her belt loop, breaking the leather in the process. He could barely stand to look at that belt, the type that whipped every inch of his skin, leaving Dallon bent over in pain, unable to cry. At night as he laid awake, the whispers of the leather serpent welted up on his skin, burning like someone was holding a touch to him. No matter how many times Dallon splashed cold water on his arms, the red snakes never disappeared, marks of abuse that made him want to cry his eyes out.

Dallon didn't smile at the sight of his mother's corpse, though. Neither did he shed any tears. Death was death, a key part of life. And for many years to come, as Dallon would leave her body to rot in the darkest corner of the basement and continue on with his life, faking signatures and turning his mother into a character, one who never left the house- Dallon would learn to love death, the way it made animals so easy to pull apart, the way it consumed every living thing eventually.

But now, as he laid on the stone floor of his bunker, listening to Ryan pet his cat and coo to her, Dallon hated death more than anything else in the world.

Death is what made Ryan who he was, a ghost, a haunting image of the once living. Something somehow real, yet untouchable except for in Dallon's darkest moments, when his body would run as cold as Ryan's did.

He hated that death separated him. He hated that everyone else in the world got an easy pass out, that they could slip into darkness and never have to worry about a single thing again. Meanwhile, Dallon was still imprisoned by his own mind, suffering in his bunker, the weight of recreating earth on his shoulders.

Dallon knew he wasn't prepared to create the new world. He knew he wasn't the right person- he was stable enough, but if he didn't do anything then nobody would.

And the world would remain in darkness forevermore.

With a sigh, Dallon stood up and clicked on his radio, praying that someone else out there was sending signals, radio transmissions, anything that meant Dallon wasn't alone. But he was greeted with the same whirling noises, like wind being pushed through a flute, cackling as he walked around the bunker with the radio in hand.

He was alone. Unless you could count the ash that used to be humans, swept off the ground by the high winds, surrendering to the black frost.

Unless you could count Ryan.

"Hey buddy, you should get something to eat." Ryan floated through Dallon, taking his attention away from the dingy radio and guiding him to the shelves, inspecting the cans and their faded labels. "Alright, you have more vegetables, rice- ew, what the fuck is this?"

Ryan grabbed at his bag of dehydrated meat, holding it upside down with his face twisted in disgust, waving it accusingly in Dallon's face. "You're not actually going to eat this, are you?"

Dallon snatched it away, placing the bag back on the shelf and ignoring the growl of his stomach.

Again. Put it down again. You didn't do it right.

He picked up the bag and placed it carefully, slowly taking his fingers away and letting the plastic crumple. It rubbed his skin the wrong way, every hair on Dallon's body standing up, breath stuck in his throat.

The plastic felt disgusting under the pads of his fingertips- it sent horrible shivers throughout his body, touching it again and again, trying to fix the nauseating feeling it made.

Wrong wrong wrong. It was so _wrong_. And Dallon was going to be sick at how badly it unsettled his stomach, how his clothes felt gross on him, how his hair was too sweaty and the way it was clinging to his forehead.

Then there was a cool hand on Dallon's neck, softly caressing his sweltering skin, chilly fingertips dragged across the desert of Dallon's body.

"It's okay Dal, it's alright. Do you need some water?" Ryan cooed, brushing Dallon's overgrown hair out of his eyes, pressing his palm against Dallon's forehead.

Dallon's hands finally unlocked from the bag, falling to the floor, letting himself be swept away by Ryan's calming touch. His eyes closed on their own accord, letting go of the breath he'd been holding, the breeze of Ryan's fingers soft compared to the strong winds he was used to.

Safe. Ryan was taking care of him- Ryan cared.

It was refreshing, head falling back into Ryan's lap, muscles un-tensing.

Ryan.

He... he was holding him, icicle fingers massaging Dallon's temples, surrounding him in coldness- but it was the warmest gesture Dallon had every experienced.

And in that moment, Dallon had never wanted anyone to be more real.

He wanted to feel Ryan's warmth, to hug and cry into his shoulder, to know that the one person who made Dallon feel worth something was real.

He didn't want to suffice with the cold air of Ryan's hands, the way he could go directly through his body, the way it submerged Dallon like the frigid breath of winter.

"Are you alright Dallon?" Ryan said, hair falling into his face as he bent over Dallon, kind smile upside down from Dallon's point of view.

But Dallon didn't answer his inquisitive look, jaw set, a crease between his eyebrows. It made his chest ache, that gentle look of concern on Ryan's pale face, holding the sides of Dallon's head gingerly.

Dallon wasn't alright. The realization of what he had to do set into the folds of his mind, whispering enticing thoughts to Dallon like the voices of snakes, hissing in one ear and slithering out the other.

The creases in Ryan's face deepened, glowing hauntingly in the darkness of the bunker, the air of his body growing more icy than normal. "Dallon? What are you thinking?"

His voice wavered, obviously trying to hid the worry in his deep tone, growing a bit more high-pitched. Dallon laid there motionlessly, staring straight above at Ryan's distressed face, every muscle in his body more relaxed than they'd ever been.

Dallon wanted to be with Ryan. Dallon _needed_ to be with Ryan. He needed to feel Ryan's warm skin, to sink into his embrace, to smell the smell of another human being instead of the odd metallic scent the bunker held.

He needed to join Ryan.

"Dallon, buddy? Please answer me." Ryan's voice cracked on the last word, cupping Dallon's jaw tightly even though his fingers went right through his skin and bones. Dallon sat up without a word, readjusting his glasses with the back of his hand, gazing at the bright labels of his cans.

Some of the cans had vintage labels, ones that Dallon had collected as a young boy. The type he'd find in the back of their cupboards, stashing away in his bedroom for the day he'd need them, whether it be the day his mother died and left him locked in his room, or years later, the nuclear holocaust.

The older cans had smiley mascots, paired with cheesy slogans about how delicious their canned goods were, colours extreme enough to hurt Dallon's head. He couldn't remember a meal he'd found delicious- he couldn't remember enjoying anything he ate. It was a gruelling task, one that his fragile body required, but Dallon hated eating, especially the disgusting meals his mother would feel him.

Dallon didn't remember enjoying anything ever. Except for Ryan's cheery banter, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his fingers lingered on Dallon's skin even after he pulled them away. It was as if Dallon's skin was covered in painted fingerprints, suddenly hyper-aware of everywhere Ryan had ever touched him, all hair standing up on those specific places.

Neck. Cheek. Forearm. Thigh. Lips. A shiver ran through Dallon as he grew unsteady, standing up on quivering legs, bones too tired to hold him up.

Dallon was going to feel Ryan.

"D-Dallon? What are you doing?" Ryan shot up, following close behind Dallon like a lamb as he strode over to the medicine cabinet, ignoring Ryan's frantic voice.

When he'd stocked the cabinet, some part of Dallon told him to add this particular pill container, the dark part of his brain that was shrouded in shadows.

_'In case things go wrong.'_ It said, tone reassuring enough to force Dallon to pack them. _'There's always a back door.'_

He never thought it'd come to this. Never did Dallon, in all his infinite knowledge, he'd never considered cutting the time on his clock short- he'd never considered that one day, he'd stop those excruciating seconds, the tick of that damned egg timer that continued to click in his mind.

Dallon never considered that one day, the voices would grow too much, and he'd resort to silencing them. Just to be with Ryan, the only person left.

The only person who acknowledged Dallon, who made him feel worth something.

"Dallon- Dallon, stop, p-please." Ryan's breathing had grown ragged, watching with wide eyes as Dallon pulled out the pill bottle, unscrewing the lid. "Dal, no- no!"

Ryan tried to grab Dallon's arm, but he went straight through the man, unable to grasp onto his wrist. Dallon stared down at the little blank pill, as white as Ryan, easily mistaken for a common mint.

"Dallon- stop. Don't do this, you're not doing what you think." Ghastly tears started to roll down Ryan's cheeks, swatting at Dallon, trying to do anything to distract him from the trance he was set in; knocking off his glasses, grabbing hold of him, pulling his shirt back- Ryan was powerless, subjected to watching Dallon pour himself a glass of water, terrifyingly numb. "D-Dal, please, don't do it."

Dallon couldn't hear the yearn in Ryan's voice, the way it cracked on every other word, freely sobbing and trying to hit Dallon- anything to stop the irreversible decision Dallon was about to make.

All Dallon could hear was the loudest obsessive thought he'd ever had, blocking out everything else, manically gleeful.

_**Go ahead, take that pretty little pill. End the ache, join Ryan.** _

He held the pill in the palm of his hand and the water in the other, setting them down on the stone floor. The only thoughts filtering through his mind were the mocks of everyone ever, telling him to kill himself, to stop being such a burden.

Dallon was making them happy, wasn't he? The first time in his life he could truly please someone.

"Please Dallon, buddy, p-please," Ryan choked out, wrapping his legs around the tall man as he went over to the television, pushing in a cassette. "Please, listen to m-me, you don't want to do this.

He wanted to hear that glorious music as his mind slipped into death, to be comforted by his father and Ryan's music. Dallon couldn't understand why Ryan was so distraught- this was what he wanted, wasn't it?

All he could feel was the cool air of Ryan's limbs trying to clutch onto him, making his sleeves billow in the wind, hair pushed around by the ghost's arms as Dallon settled down in front of the TV and watched the pixels fizzle onscreen.

"D-Dal..." Ryan sobbed into Dallon's chest, glowing tears slipping down his face, watching uselessly as Dallon popped the pill in his mouth, downing it with a mouthful of water. "Dallon, h-how could you do this to yourself?"

Dallon tuned out Ryan's whimpers, even though they made his worn heart ache, a familiar hollowness returning in his chest. Like a black hole, that feeling of hopelessness ate up every other emotion Dallon had ever felt, draining him of all feeling.

All he could hear was the tick of the egg timer, tempo rushing faster and faster, growing louder and louder as it beat tauntingly. It drowned the music in it's hectic clicks, heart pounding the same speed, mocking him.

"Dallon..." Ryan wept, sallow eyes drooling with his white tears, soaking into the floral pattern of his shirt. The outline of his body grew faint with every second that passed, voice quiet in Dallon's ear as he disappeared from reality, uttering the last words Dallon's would ever hear.

"I love you."

Dallon tried to scrunch his face up in confusion as Ryan faded away, but he was numb, body rotting away under him. First it stole the feeling in his feet, a serpent of pins and needles overtaking his legs, folded beneath him.

Why was Ryan gone? And why was the television gone too, erased from the bunker like it never even existed, music lost to the heavy pounding of Dallon's heart as realization set in.

He didn't want to die. This wasn't what he thought would happen at all. _Dallon didn't want to die._

Ryan wasn't a ghost. Ghosts don't exist. He'd been a hallucination all along, a pretty picture of Dallon's inactive imagination, awoken by the radiation that crept through the bunker walls.

As his heart slowed it's beats, lost to the poison of the pill, Dallon realized he was dying for nothing at all. Ryan had never existed, and Dallon was withering away underground, letting the chemicals turn his brain into one of a zombie's.

He tried to gasp for air, to let himself cry at his revelation, to have any reaction at all to the fact that Dallon was dying for nothing. But his face was frozen like a sculpture, eyes glazed over, staring straight ahead into the gaping hole where the television once stood with it's beautiful music.

The music Dallon had never really gotten to experience. Everything wonderful he'd felt in the past few days was a lie, some dream his brain had constructed, eroded by the radiation that laid in the veins of the earth.

And as every hue of the rainbow started to crawl into Dallon's vision, earthy reds and oranges muddled by black and white images, ones of his worthless life flashing in front of him- Dallon knew his brain was crumbling, whisked away by the venom of the cyanide, body numbed and dead by that one little pill.

He realized he'd killed himself for love, the one thing he'd never truly had, and it hadn't even been real. Dallon killed himself for absolutely no one, forced himself into the black canvas of the void, the last man on earth.

Weak and stupid. The two things Dallon had tried so hard not to be, but his brain always won in the end.

And as the world went black, Dallon realized,

The world would never see life again, dead forever, just as Dallon's corpse would be.

The bunker was his grave, and he'd dug it himself, let himself be hypnotized by a figment of his imagination.

No one had ever loved him. Even as he laid there, lips parted, a tiny sigh of all life escaping them,

Dallon knew he'd always been worthless, easy to dispose of.

He'd gotten one taste of love, and thrown it all away.

Just to feel something, anything than the bitter emotions that inhabited his brain.

Now, nothing inhabited his brain, except for regret and poison.

Nothing.

**PLEASE REMOVE TAPE**

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a family is a ghost, a mentally unstable recluse and his cat, isn't it?


End file.
